


the liar and his lover

by michellejjones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fremione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10872276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellejjones/pseuds/michellejjones
Summary: His parents had taught him to unreservedly love with all of himself. They had neglected to tell him that this could hurt.[Fred and Hermione. Fremione. Oneshot.]





	the liar and his lover

* * *

_"People are not rain or snow or autumn leaves;  
_ _they do not look beautiful when they fall."_   
**-Naveed A. Khan.**

* * *

 

He loves her.

The thought comes to him naturally, settling into the pit of his belly and holding fast to him. It doesn't frighten him, doesn't send him spiraling into a sense of insecurity. No, none of that _what's wrong with me, I'll get hurt, don't be stupid_ thought process occurs; He's a Weasley, after all, and if his parents taught him anything, it's to love unashamedly, unreservedly, and unceasingly, with every fiber of one's being. So he does. He loves her in the first year he comes to know her, loves her wit and her intelligence and the intense gaze she can fix upon you. Yes, he loves her.

But he's not _in love_ with her.

He glances down at a photograph he's holding, and the picture smiles up at him: a girl with frizzy hair sits squashed in between him and his look-a-like, his younger brother standing behind her and the Boy Who Lived sitting on a bench underneath the four, the only Weasley sister thrown haphazardly over the Chosen One's lap. The only brunette girl in the photo is laughing, head thrown back, pushing him away. She rolls her eyes at something the other twin says and jostles the youngest Weasley male who stands behind her. Harry Potter turns, Ginevra Weasley making a displeased face as his attention is fished away from her. They're so _happy,_ all of them, not paying any mind to the camera that's trying to catch them still. He glances at himself in the photo, at the _Fred Weasley of Old,_ and finds that he's gazing at the brunette girl with a glitter of fondness in his eyes.

No, he concludes, as he lies in bed, that same photograph held between his fingertips; he wasn't in love with her when they first met.

He did, however, love her.

* * *

He is thirteen years old when he first sees her, and she's just shy of turning twelve. Her brown hair is wilder than it normally is, but he doesn't know this; all he knows is that she is standing before the Hogwarts Express, hair whipped violently by the wind, an expression of well-hidden insecurity plastered onto her face as she stares at the scarlet engine. George jostles him, says, "first year, you think?" and Fred, agreeing, nods. He's about to suggest they go over to her, to help her, when a boy stumbles past, looking even paler than the girl and even more lost, more insecure, more lonely. His face is tinged with an almost insignificant green, and upon taking note of him, Fred and George immediately congregate towards him; this boy, whoever he is, needs help. And, well. Here they are.

Fred remembers glancing back at the girl, at her insecurity, and he notes the other tone that's hidden in her eyes, that steely gaze that found its home in her irises and never quite left. He remembers tearing his eyes away from her only when the pre-teen before them answers George's question with, _"er, yeah, I'm... I'm Harry. Harry Potter."_

He gets caught up in conversation with the Boy Who Refused To Die, and it isn't until Ron's come along that Fred thinks to check on the little brunette again. When he turns around, however, she's gone. He feels strangely disappointed, but the feeling quickly evaporates upon laying eyes on Lee Jordan.

No, Fred decides, as he looks back upon that memory.

He didn't love her then.

* * *

She says to him, one evening, smack in the middle of the second term of his third year (her first year), "Fred, will you pass me the mashed potatoes?"

The request is simple, and he obeys it without sparing her a thought, earns himself a, "thank you," in response. It isn't until he's shoveling mashed potatoes into his own mouth that he starts, fork hanging in mid air. He drops the utensil and, with a flourish, turns to her, effectively breaking up whatever whispered discussion she was having with Ron and Harry Potter. "Hermione," he begins, watching her blink up at him, "you said my name."

Hermione raises an eye brow, "yes, that's typically what one calls someone else, Fred."

Usually, he would have responded with some equally cheeky comment, but instead he pushes the twelve-year-old's wit aside and says, "you called me Fred."

"Not following."

"You called me Fred, and _I'm Fred._ I'm Fred, not George, and you didn't confuse me. It just occurred to me that you've been calling me Fred." Indeed, as he's speaking, other memories surface: when she asked him, Fred, to pass her a napkin, asked if he could hand her something, demanded he _shut up or else._ And through all that, he'd been Fred. Never once had he been George.

Hermione nods, "yes, and?"

"Why?" Fred asks her, nice and simple. "Why do you know my name? Know how to tell us apart?"

She pops a grape into her mouth, contemplating his question. When she swallows, she says, "well, you bothered to know my name." She watches him nod in approval; "therefore, I should know yours. Whatever it takes."

Fred gapes, "but that must've taken ages; George and I are at _least_ ninety-nine percent identical."

He watches Hermione wag her fork at him, a smile gracing her lips, "whatever it takes, Fred." She stands up, done with her meal, and finishes their conversation with, "besides, I like a challenge." With a shrug and a wave, she bounds off with Ron and Harry, leaving a bemused Fred staring after her.

He's not in love with her then, but in that moment, and forever onwards, he loves her.

* * *

In her second year (his fourth) she finds him knee-deep and shirtless in the lake that makes its home on the Hogwarts castle grounds. She's the only one that's noticed him and his antics from the Gryffindor common room; he wonders what she'd been doing that had caused it to be so.

"Fred," Hermione begins, caution in her voice, "what are you doing?"

The question takes him back to when he's three years old and his mom finds him sitting on the kitchen floor, flour and sugar and salt in piles around him. She'd asked him that very same question, in that very same tone. He thinks Hermione's just as frightening as his mother.

Not that he'd ever let her know it.

Fred wiggles his toes underneath the lake, feels the mud in between them, and says, "can you swim, Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

Smart girl, Fred thinks, a smile gracing his lips. He contemplates lying to her, but decides against it; like he'd thought before. Smart girl. "I was going to go look for the squid." He doesn't have to hear the next question to know she's about to ask it _("Why?")_ so he continues, "because George and I need ink."

"And where is George?"

"Inside," Fred shrugs, "he won the coin toss and gets to be lookout." Wryly, he adds, "must've gotten distracted, though. Damn Johnson."

"While you do the dirty work, then?"

"Exactly," Fred says, miserably.

He can almost hear the smile stretching across her face when she says, "cut the act, Weasley; I know you like getting your hands dirty."

He laughs, shoulders shaking at the thirteen-year-old's bluntness. He laughs so much he almost misses when she says, "put your shirt back on, Fred. There's an easier way."

Confusion is etched on his features when he finally turns around to face her. His bare chest is greeted by the wind that had moments ago been slapping his back, and Hermione steadily trains her eyes on his face, that steely look in her gaze glinting at him (but it doesn't hide the blush that creeps to her cheeks, no, and it doesn't hide the smug feeling of pride that crawls up into his heart and stays there). She tosses him his shirt, and then says, "follow me."

Pulling on his robe as he does so, shoes held in one hand and wand in the other, Fred Weasley follows Hermione Granger to the other side of the lake, where a large crate rests, hidden, beneath a tree. Hermione waves her wand and Fred watches as the crate's lid loosens, sees Hermione hike up the sleeve of her robe and plunge a hand in, pulling out a writhing fish as big as her forearm and twice as strong. She stumbles with it, says, all-too-calmly, "a little help would be just lovely, thanks," and nods in approval when Fred trips over himself to assist her. She Stupefies the fish, and together, Fred and Hermione toss it into the lake. "Be ready," she warns him, "when it shows itself, all you need to do is ask nicely. Understand?"

Mutely, he nods, and after, when he's got two vials full of inky black liquid, acquired simply by feeding the great squid and asking politely for some ink, he walks back to the Gryffindor Common Room with Hermione next to him, the setting sun burning their shadows as they walk. "Hermione?" He asks her, as the Fat Lady comes in to view. She raises a brow at him, and he says, more humbly than he'd thought himself capable, "thank you."

(But he's not in love with her.)

"You're quite welcome, Fred."

(Not then.)

* * *

"Are you possessed, mate?" George asks him for the upteenth time, as they step out from the nurse's office, a book tucked under Fred's arm and a look of faux nonchalance on each their faces. "Every _day_ you come in here; not even Harry and Ron come in to see her every day!"

Fred grimaces at this, because it's true: He's the only one insane enough to visit Hermione Granger in the sick ward every day.

"She can't even hear you, Fred, not really. Why do you keep at it?" George continues, but before Fred can retort, Ginny walks right into them, looking dazed and a little out of her mind. "Are you alright there, sister of mine?" George asks her, peering down to the female redhead.

"Hm?" She asks, absentmindedly, "yeah, 'm alright. Got something to do, 's all..." And with that, she sort-of floats away, dodging students, staring blankly ahead.

"We should check on her tonight," Fred says to George, who nods, jaw set. "She's not well." They set off down the hall, and Fred, upon glancing down at the book he'd been reading to her _(The Liar and her Lover)_ remembers the earlier point George had brought up. "Hermione's not well either, you know," he continues, trying for an off-hand tone, "and we owe her. We should check up on her, too." George grimaces, but doesn't fight his brother on the subject.

Later, about a week or two later, she wakes up. Potter has saved Ginny, and Ron has ruined Lockhart (there wasn't much to ruin, Fred thinks, and he doesn't really feel guilty for the thought), and Hermione, Fred comes to realize, has saved them all. It was her who brought Harry and Ron to the conclusion they'd reached, who steered them, even in her state, to the right direction of where the Chamber was located, of where Ginny was. Hermione Granger had, once again, helped to save the day. Dead without her.

He slips into her room later that night (she still hasn't been checked out of the hospital ward), and quietly lays _The Liar and her Lover_ on her bedside table, a note scrawled inside it in his own neat, bold handwriting:

**You probably don't remember this, but while you were out I read this book to you.  
** **Thought you might better enjoy it now that you can actually read it for yourself.  
** **Thank you, Hermione.  
** **For everything.**

**-F.W.**

As he slips out of the ward, the image of her mane of hair and muddy brown eyes seems to be imprinted on his retinas, irremovable. A strange feeling settles inside him, something he's never really felt before. It ignites him, like a permanent form of adrenaline, and he lets it pulse through him, though he doesn't know what the feeling is.

He's started to fall in love with her, then.

Whether he knows this or not is a different matter all together.

* * *

He isn't jealous, he decides, as he watches her float down a staircase, arm-in-arm with Victor Krum. He'd liked Victor, at first, but seeing him now, accompanying this girl with lively eyes and a gorgeous smile and unbelievably long, thick hair, he finds himself suddenly disliking of the older teen, suddenly finds a pang of disapproval inking his chest, and, unknowingly, his hold on Angelina's arm tightens.

"Fred," Angelina says roughly, "let go, you're hurting me."

He relinquishes his hold immediately, apologizing profusely for the pain he'd accidentally caused her. She forgives him easily, before floating off to speak to George. It's George she likes, Fred knows this; George knows this too. George'd planned to ask her, first, but then Katie had swept over to him, begging him to take her for reasons she'd expressly forbidden he and Fred to name, and so Fred had taken Angelina in George's steed, so as to make sure no other man swept up the ebony lass instead.

"You okay, mate?" Lee asks him, snapping him back out of his reminiscent state. He glances at the front of the room, where Hermione is eating with Victor, and feels that strange creature in his chest stir again. Pushing it aside, Fred nods.

"Peachy keen," he says. The two begin to converse about various topics of which Fred doesn't devote himself. He fidgets with his dress robes as he watches Hermione lean in to whisper something to Krum: Krum laughs. It's a few minutes later that the dance floor is opened, and Fred leads Angelina to a corner, where they immerse themselves in some stupid, silly dance that no one can -or wants- to follow. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Hermione stealing glances at them, and feels strangely elated.

But no, he defiantly decides: he's not jealous.

* * *

He decides nothing has ever hurt as much as this.

Angelina is dancing with George; Katie's gone off to some corner of the ball room to do who-knows-what; Lee and Alicia are teaching some pure-bloods Muggle line dances, and so Fred slips away, fancying himself a trip to the Astronomy Tower.

He finds her there, on the tower, curled up against the wall, watching the sky with a vacant gleam in her eyes. She's not crying, but it's clear she has been. This, for some reason, hurts him, sends his every nerve shaking and paining, his heart aching at the sight of her in distress. The door shuts behind him, loudly, and she starts, her hair -unusually sleek and straight in honor of the occasion- swinging like curtains on either side of her face. Hermione tries for a smile. "Hello," she says.

His mouth opens. Closes. And then he says, "love, are you okay?" He starts at his own words, and Hermione jerks slightly as well; Fred has never called anyone _love_ before, much less Hermione. Oh well, Fred thinks, pushing aside his surprise. Too late to take it back, now. Setting his jaw bravely, he speaks, tone gentler this time: "what's wrong, love?"

Hermione copies his earlier movements, opening her mouth and then snapping it shut quickly, trying to catch her words before they escape. He can hear the lie that she's about to push through, the _"I'm fine"_ she's going to spit at him, and he gives her a look to know not to even try. At that she visibly deflates; he has to restrain himself from wincing. "I-" Hermione chokes on the single vowel, and Fred finds his heart twisting painfully, unnaturally, at the sight of her distress. He kneels down in front of her, so that they are eye level, and watches her avert her own deep brown irises from the blue ones he claims. He waits. "I don't think I'm meant for your brother," she says softly, and Fred has to fight the strange thrill that runs through him as she continues, "I don't think I'm meant for anyone, really."

"And what makes you think that?" It's cold up here; Hermione's shoulders are shaking (whether from the chill or from the tears he doesn't know), and he almost absently conjures a thick blanket for the both of them, watching her expression of mild shock and surprise as he sits down next to her and drapes them both in the warm fabric.

Hermione draws a shaky breath, rubbing at her red eyes before slipping her hands underneath the sheet. "I-I fancy Krum, a bit, I do, but... but it won't ever work, and-and, and I'm not even sure I want to even try... and then... oh..." Hermione bites her lip, unsure of continuing. Fred finds her freezing fingertips and touches the edges, prodding her forward. She draws another breath. "I don't really know what to do with Ron. I don't want to do anything with him, but at the same time, I do. It's just," Hermione makes a disgusted face, "so confusing."

"Men are pigs, Hermione," Fred tells her in a low voice. He sees her lips twitch and feels strangely elated. "But, you know, Ron will always come back to you-" he catches the look she gives him and rolls his eyes "-just trust me, okay?" He waits for her to nod, and when she does, he continues with a deep breath, "and, er, if you don't mind me saying, I think, love, that you think a bit too much sometimes."

Hermione turns her head to stare at him. "What?"

Feeling a little braver, Fred feels that mischief-making streak in him return, knows that glint has reached his eyes again, and he firmly entwines their hands, watching her start before settling against him, awaiting her answer. "There are moments, Hermione," Fred whispers into her ear, "there are instances in time and space, fragments in the grand scheme of things, where one has got to be rash, has got to take a chance, has got to just get on with it. You can't overthink it; hell, you can't even think it. You've just got to act, or the moment will pass you by," they watch the stars twinkle overhead as he pulls away from her ear, "gone forever."

Hermione is silent for a second before turning towards him once again, "Fred Weasley," she dutifully informs him, "I proclaim you completely full of it." She's got a glint in her eye that rivals his own as she continues, "you sound like a passage in a Gilderoy Lockhart novel."

Fred feigns offense, putting his free hand to his heart and miming being stabbed, "you wound me, Hermione, and brutally so; I cannot feel my heartbeat, for your cruelty has stopped its pumping."

She raises a brow, and, in a fit of courage, she leans forward and presses her ear against his chest. Fred's eyes widen when she does this, and he doesn't dare move for fear of scaring her off; at the same time, however, he's afraid she'll hear his erratic heartbeat and make fun of him. She hums into his chest and says, "funny, I can hear your heart just fine."

"And how's it sound?" His free hand finds the small of her back almost on instinct, wordlessly inviting her to get comfortable, and he watches her shift slightly, until she's leaning against him, using his chest as a pillow: accepting his invitation.

When Hermione speaks, it rumbles through his body, her voice stronger than it was when he found her, and (he relishes at the thought) a little happier, too. "Welcoming."

She lets him lower them until they're lying down, him watching the stars and her resting her head on his chest. Absentmindedly, he plants a kiss on the top of her sleek head of hair and says, voice low, "only for you, love."

Their breathing falls into synch, and eventually, Hermione falls asleep to his strong, steady, welcoming heartbeat. Fred, after casting a few enchantments to shield them from prying eyes and the cold, follows her lead, a strange, new feeling of contentment -and something else he's yet to place- settling inside him.

Oh, he's in love with her, then.

He just doesn't know it.

* * *

She has long legs, small hips, a round waist, a somewhat-large bust, and a face that isn't all that pretty, not to most. To him, however, it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen; it's like looking at a complicated piece of art; every time he looks at it, he catches sight of something that causes him to feel something, that fills him to the brim with emotions that represent only him and Hermione.

Her hands are playing with his hair as they sit, hidden, underneath the shade of a tree that rests a little ways off from the Weasley house. His head is lying on her lap, and his eyes are closed as he lets her run a hand through his thick red hair, liking the feeling and especially when she occasionally massages his scalp. She's reading some Muggle book to him out loud, and though he'll never admit it, he quite likes this story; he finds it, in a strange sort of way, slightly relatable. _Sense & Sensible Steve, _he thinks it's called (but that can't be right; the book is too proper for a name like that. He'll have to sneak a peak at the cover later, when he's not so comfortable).

Ginny is off with George and Mr Weasley running some errands, and Ron is upstairs cleaning his extremely messy room on the orders of Mrs Weasley, who's making dinner. Hermione and Fred have slipped out, unnoticed in the chaos. So here they are, the both of them, comfortable as can be, as Hermione reads to them both, her voice gentle against the wind as she finishes her paragraph. _"It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy-"_ a noise escapes Fred's lips, one that has Hermione very flustered as she abruptly strops reading, hot and bothered all over at the sound that Weasley Number Four has managed to procure. "What is it?" Hermione asks him, hand hovering over his hair.

Upon her question, he makes that sound again, and Hermione flushes; it's a low groan, deep and throaty and full of something she doesn't want to identify. It's a sound she's never heard Fred make before, and Hermione, for some reason she can't place, likes it. When Fred speaks, it's in that same low and throaty tone: "why'd you stop?"

"Stop what?" She's confused.

"Stop doing that thing you were doing with my hair," Fred says impatiently.

Hermione raises a brow, "liked that, didn't you?" She asks, teasingly.

To her surprise, Fred raises himself up on his elbows, dangerously close to her, so close that he can make out her dilated pupils, and she his. "You've no idea, love," he says, voice still low, gazing at her through half-open eyes. Her head dips down, ready to do who-knows-what _("You shouldn't think all the time, love.")_ , before her mind catches up with her feelings, and she clears her throat.

Fred breaks into a grin at how flustered she is, but Hermione can't help but think she's sensed a flash of disappointment in him when she pulls back from their close proximity. It disappears too quickly to confirm, and she tries to push the thought out of her mind (it fills her with an unnatural sense of happiness to think he's disappointed that whatever has just happened didn't completely happen). He says, in his regular voice, "please, love, for the goodness of the world, continue on with what you were doing." He collapses onto her lap again, and sighs in contentment when she resumes running a hand through his hair.

"You're so odd, Weasley," she teases, as a smirk flies onto his features.

"Comes from hanging around you so much, Granger." He moans again, "Merlin, that feels absolutely brilliant."

"Like me."

He laughs. "Like you, exactly." There's no sarcasm on his tongue; he means the compliment, and she blushes at that.

Clearing her throat, Hermione begins reading the book again, and, as Fred closes his eyes, he catches sight of the name of her novel. _Sense & Sensibility, _he says to himself.

He'll have to remember that.

* * *

He drops his fork in shock.

It's a fairly normal day, nothing too extremely odd going on. Harry's just joined them, and he's sitting on Ron's right, chattering with Ginny. Ron himself is talking to Hermione, who's to his left. They're smiling and joking towards each other, and it's then that the realization hits him, not harshly, but gently, falling into his lap noiselessly. In fact, if he hadn't dropped his fork when the knowledge crept upon him, it would have all passed by unnoticed.

"You alright, mate?" George asks him, looking at Fred worryingly. Fred shakes his head.

"No," he says, "but we can't talk about it right now."

George nods in understanding, says, "later, then," and continues on with his meal. He'll tell George, Fred decides. The day he hides anything from George is the day he dies. As he sneaks another glance at Hermione, he sees she's looking back at him. Their eyes meet for a moment; she smiles and gives him a teeny wave; he smiles back, charmingly, and watches her blush. A memory strikes him, suddenly, of another book Hermione's read to him, by that same Jane Austen fellow, of a line he remembers from it, as clear as day: _"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."_

Yeah, Fred decides, as he and Hermione avert their eyes from each other lest their faces burst from grinning. That quote suits him well, all right.

(He's in love with her, and this time, he knows it.)

* * *

He lays in bed that night, thinking of everything that had brought him to this moment, a photograph clutched between his fingertips, trying to determine the precise moment he fell arse over tea kettle in love for Hermione Granger. He, however, doesn't know exactly when. All he knows is he did. He glances at the photograph again, taken only a week ago, and contemplates on his plan of action.

(George had told him to stay away; "she's Ron's girl, Fred, you know that.")

She floats through his mind all night, in and out of his dreams, always pleasant when they're full of her. In the morning, he makes to go and speak to her, to sneak her out of the house for another one of their hour-long sessions with each other, but then he peaks around the staircase and finds her and Ron sitting close together, speaking and laughing and flirting and bickering in low tones. His heart lurches. A sharp pain makes its way up his body. Fred backs slowly up the staircase, and trips back into bed.

("She's Ron's girl," George had told him.

George was right.)

* * *

His parents had taught him to unreservedly love with all of himself.

They had neglected to tell him that this could hurt.

* * *

He stays away for most of that year, talking to her only when she barrels towards him and George in a haze of fury over the innocent first years that storm Gryffindor Tower. The rest of the time he whizzes by her, pretending to be too busy to chat when she seeks him out, pretending he doesn't really care. It's easier, he tells himself.

(George is worried. He pretends he's not, but he is.)

He watches her with Ron, and he forces down that monster in his belly, forces down the bile rising up his throat when she glances at him with a hurt expression on her face. She'll snap soon, he knows.

Oh, he knows.

* * *

She comes to him in a haze of furious anger, door to the Astronomy Tower bursting open as she marches up to him, jabs a finger at his chest, and says, "you're hurting me."

She's never used this tone of voice on him before; like he's Ron, or Krum, some boy that doesn't treat her like she deserves. Some boy that makes her feel pain. All at once, he hates himself.

"I didn't mean to," he says, just as quietly, and he watches her shoulders slump. He matches her defeated tone. "You're not daft, love, you... you know I didn't mean to."

"But you did, Fred." Hermione glances up at him. "With all this ignoring me and pushing me away, and... why?"

He finds himself tearing his gaze away, because he knows the moment he looks at her his entire being will crack. She's so young; both of them are, really. And yet each carries a quarter of the world on their shoulders (Harry used to carry it all, but little by little they've taken bits of it from him, a promise to him that means more than words ever could). "You know why," Fred says. "Don't make me say it; it'll only hurt us more."

"Fred, I-"

"We're leaving, tomorrow," Fred says to her, trying desperately to avoid the conversation she's tracked him down to have. "George and I. One last hurrah, and then -well, we're pretty sure we're going to get caught, this prank's a little too big to hide, but, hey, go big or go home, right?" He gives her a lopsided grin, but it's too sad and too big to be real. "Hermione," he says, softer, leaning forward. She meets him, foreheads resting gently against each other, "love, I want you to go back to him."

She shakes her head, defiant. "I'm not his, Fred."

"No," he agrees, "but you are each other's."

Hermione deflates.

"I'll write you, yeah?" He asks, desperate to make this better, somehow. "I'll let you know everything that's going with the business, and you can visit in the summer; bring Ginny with you, she's my favorite sister, you know-" he grins at his own joke "-and, and, maybe, just maybe, if you don't hate me, you'll find some time off from saving the world to write me back."

She stares at him for a long, long time, and he stares back, breath bated, until, in one quick motion, she grabs his robes and kisses him, hard, on the lips. He staggers backwards, surprised, and all too soon, she's pulled away, gazing at him fiercely. "Do you love me?" She asks.

(It's a test, he knows. One final way for him to claim her, for her to _let him_ claim her. The words form on his tongue, but he bites them back, thinking of his little brother, fast asleep in the same room as Harry Potter. Life isn't this easy. He wishes it was, knows she wishes, too. It's a test, and, like many others, though he knows the answer, he'll fail it.)

"No," Fred says, voice too quiet to mean it. "No, I don't."

* * *

_Fred,_

_I'm quite bored here at home. Honestly, I love my parents, but the only thing I've found interesting in the Muggle-world nowadays is the music. Muggles might not have magic, but they come pretty damn close to it in some songs. I've actually enclosed a mix tape you should listen to if you ever get the chance. You'll have to go to Muggle London to buy a box for it, but trust me, it's worth it. They're some of my favorite songs in the world, and they could make a grown man cry (which means you should cry quite easily)._

_I'm packing for The Burrow as we speak, and Ginny's already written me to say we'll be visiting you quite often. I hope things won't be awkward; though even if they are, George and Ginny are sure to ease the tension. Ginny has now mastered the art of a well-timed fart joke. Help me._

_I'm glad everything's going well with the business. Any new ideas in the works? My dad had the thought of magical dentures, which I'm sure you could enchant to do all sorts of things (snog somebody when they're not expecting it, change teeth size and shape, bite a person and not let go til they do something increasingly humiliating). Do you and George know what dentures are? If not, owl me, and I'll bring a pair; my dad and mum have got loads. If you and George decide to use the idea, though, make sure you name it Granger Grinders, or Henry Howlers, or something with either Granger or Henry in it; my dad insists._

_I'll see you soon, Fred. I miss you, and, in case you were wondering, even though you were an arsehole, I still love you. Hell, maybe I'm still in love with you, I don't know. Perhaps if you'd been a better kisser I'd know for sure, huh?_

_Love,  
Hermione._

* * *

Perhaps if he'd been a better kisser, Fred thinks wryly, gently folding the letter and putting it away. He pulls out a blank sheet of parchment and dips in his quill.

_Dear Hermione..._

He snorts. Perhaps not.

* * *

The last time he sees her is the last time he holds her, for a long, long time.

Bill and Fleur's wedding is lovely, he admits, quite begrudgingly. However, even lovelier is she. Her brown eyes sparkle in the light as he pulls her into a slow dance, having stolen her away from a cross-looking Ron only moments before. She's pulled her hair up, and blushes when he compliments her on how artful she looks. "But then," Fred adds on an afterthought, "you always look beautiful to me."

"Keep that up and I might just fall in love with you," she says softly, and he knows that a part of her still belongs to him. He feels triumphant; but then, a part of him also belongs to her.

He pulls her close to him, rests his chin on top of her head, lips pressed against her hair and allowing himself to be unashamedly comfortable with her. "Fred," she says, and he begrudgingly pulls back to look her in the eyes, "we won't be seeing each other for a long time." She swallows, hard, "maybe not ever again. And, well, I just, I want _-need,_ really- you to know that I-"

"Stop."

His voice is rougher and more emotional than he'd intended; she starts at his low tone of voice and looks at him with a question in her eyes. "Stop." He says again. "You'll come back, love. You're not going to-" he closes his eyes; he can't even say it, "-you're not going to leave, alright?" He clears his throat, "you're going to come back to me, Granger. Understand?"

She stares at him for a few moments before nodding slowly.

"Do you promise?" Fred asks her, and nothing in his life has ever been more important than her answer.

She leans up, her lips ghosting his, and Fred wonders if she knows that Ron's just turned away from them. "I promise." She murmurs in response, and she means it.

* * *

She spins around, Harry and Ron clutched on either side of her, and the last thing she sees before Disapparating is a pair of bright blue eyes that send an electric current through her body, causing her stomach to drop and butterflies to explode inside her.

But then, as quickly as she'd seen them, the eyes disappear, lost in the throng of people, and everything around her goes dark.

* * *

The day he keeps a secret from George is the day he dies, Fred firmly tells himself, and, taking another shot of firewhisky, he tells his holey brother, "Amortentia smells like her. I wish I could make it stop."

George glances at his twin, before mimicking Fred's earlier actions and downing his own shot. "That's not how it works, Fred."

"I want it to go away, George. It would be easier if it went away."

"Yeah. I suppose it would."

* * *

It's one in the morning of May the second when Fred wakes up with her name on his lips and a hole in his heart. With mild surprise, he realizes he's on the floor. George puts down the book he'd been reading upon realizing his brother has awoken, and says, very matter-of-factly, "you fell off the couch."

"Ten points to Gryffindor for that shocking observation," Fred replies, voice dripped in biting sarcasm as he stands.

Just then, Ginny bursts through the door of the bedroom he and George are sharing, her hair swinging in its ponytail as she says, "I'm coming with you."

They stare at her, sure she's gone mental.

"Remus is about to come in here and tell you that Hogwarts is going to fight back; You-Know-Who's on his way over there as we speak. You're taking me with you."

"Why should we do that?" George asks, eyes narrowed.

"Because," Ginny says, "It's Hogwarts, and Harry needs all the help he can get. I love him," she sets her jaw, eyes afire with defiance and confidence, "and I'm not leaving him. Not now."

George opens his mouth to tell her off, to say he won't do it, but then Fred looks at him. A silent conversation issues between them, and finally, George's shoulders slump. "Fine," he says. "But only because this one-" he motions to Fred "-has gone all sentimental."

Just then, Remus yells, "Fred, George, hurry up or you'll be left behind! Your parents are already over there, come on now! Leave Ginny!" They here the whirling of a fireplace, and know Remus is gone.

The three remaining Weasleys grab their wands and sprint towards the fireplace, Fred and George pulling on their robes as they do so. Ginny goes through the floo first, and Fred is about to follow before George taps him, curiosity etched on his features. "What?" Fred asks, impatient.

"What were you dreaming about, back there?" George inquires, "you were really upset."

Fred hesitates, contemplating telling his brother the truth, that he'd been dreaming about Hermione. But then, it's been almost a year since he last saw her, and now's not the time for George to be worrying over his brother's sanity; Hogwarts has been invaded, after all. Everyone's got to be alert. So, after hesitating for the briefest of seconds, Fred swiftly says, "I had a nightmare that Remus and Tonks' kid never met me."

George quirks a brow, stepping into the fireplace. Fred follows. "Odd," George comments, and Fred nods.

It's the first lie he's ever told George, and, inexplicably, it makes Fred feel filthy.

* * *

He sees her out of the corner of his eye, sees her as he and Percy are fighting, and throws his head back laughing as Percy takes a crack at the ex-Minister of Magic. "You _are_ joking, Perce!" His eyes meet Hermione's, and he sees her smile of greeting. He greets her back, takes one step towards her-

His last thoughts are as follows: He lied to George, he is dying, Percy made a joke, and the last thing he'll ever see is the woman he loved, a look of absolute terror written across her face.

He loves them, purely and wholly.

He doesn't regret it.

* * *

"He did love you, you know."

George's voice is so similar to _his,_ that for a second Hermione dares to hope, but then she turns and sees the hole in the side of his head, and her heart comes plummeting downwards again.

"In love with you. Right to the end," George continues. His voice is too soft, softer than it used to be, _before._ "My brother."

"I wish he hadn't," she responds, a bitter bite in her words, even after three years and countless bottles of firewhisky. The ring on her finger seems to burn her, but after a fleeting second the feeling disappears, and she says, "I wish he hadn't and that he could hate me with life inside him."

George swallows, a terrible sense of deja vu rising inside him; he's the feeling that he's had a conversation similar to this before. The grave before them stares, as if taunting the two who stand before it, daring them. To do what, George doesn't know. "That's not how it works, Hermione." He says, quietly.

She turns to him, that ring on her finger catching light and hitting him in the eyes. He blinks to clear the spots in them, watches her shaking shoulders as she says, "But I want it to be that way. It would be easier if it would be that way."

He stares at her. Blinks. Swallows what tastes like lead.

"Yeah," he says. "I suppose it would."


End file.
